


Time Bombs

by liamdunbagel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I.E.D, I.E.D Disorder, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Teen Angst, liam dunbar - Freeform, little bit of violence, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liamdunbagel/pseuds/liamdunbagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day that began the end for Liam: his psych evaluation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Bombs

It was cold in the waiting room.

I finally managed to drag my eyes off the carpet. It was a bit cozy for a doctor’s office- the walls were beige, the furniture was all black, and the chairs were surprisingly comfortable. Well, they were at first; the longer I sat there, the harder it was for me to sit still. The magazine in my lap crinkled as I shifted in my seat again. I glanced at the man to my right, eyeing his thick neck and square shoulders as he read his book. I smirked. He may have looked normal, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t, and I wasn’t, and neither was the pretty black girl across the room, or the woman sitting next to her, or the kid with blue hair sitting in the corner by himself. Hell, the blue haired kid probably had the least to hide.

I turned towards the receptionist, the only normal one in here. My eyes shifted downwards when my magazine fell to the floor. I couldn’t bring them up again.

“Liam Dunbar?”

Here we go.

My mother stood up immediately, and after rubbing my palms on my jeans, I followed her and my stepfather out of the room. The nurse led us down a series of hallways until we stopped in front of my psychiatrist’s office. She smiled and said a quick “Dr. Roswell is ready when you are,” before leaving us to our fate. My mother was the first to go in, as always, and I shoved my hands in my pockets before following my stepfather in after her. 

Dr. Roswell was sitting at his desk when we came in, but he rose upon our arrival and shook our hands. Dr. Roswell didn’t look like a doctor. He had a kind face, equipped with a bright smile and warm brown eyes that showed genuine concern. His hands were like baseball mitts, but they weren’t intimidating. He always wore fitted button downs and solid color ties, which is nice because I hate patterned ties. They piss me off. All in all, I liked him, but he seemed more like he belonged in a park with his wife and two-year old son than in an office- a rather cold office, I might add. Why was every room so cold in this place? 

“Well Liam, at this point, there were only two possible illnesses left for us to diagnose you with. And I’m happy to say you don’t have bipolar disorder like we originally thought.”

My mother sighed in relief but my stepfather squinted. I shifted in my seat.

“And?” 

My mother glared at my stepfather as the doctor sighed and turned to me. “Well, son, I’m afraid you have what’s called Intermittent Explosive Disorder.”

Mom’s eyes widened and my stepfather’s face shifted to an expression I couldn’t read. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

My mother asks, “Are you sure he’s not just bipolar?” _Just_ bipolar? What’s going on?

“What’s Intermissive Explosive Disorder?” I ask.

Dr. Roswell grimaces before speaking. “Intermittent, not intermissive. Intermittent Explosive Disorder, or I.E.D, is a mental illness where the patient is unable to resist aggressive impulses triggered by any provocation or stress. Those affected by I.E.D might feel tension before an episode, immediately followed by an outburst of anger or violence. Last week you said you felt a tightness in your chest before you got angry, am I right?"

I said yes.

"The individual usually feels regret after an episode. And patients who fit criterion A2, like you, don’t often have these outbursts, but when you do, you cause a lot of damage to those around you. Does any of this sound familiar, Liam?”

He was speaking softly now, but I wasn’t listening. So I have extreme anger issues? Does this mean every time I blew up on someone I was overreacting? How come none of my friends said anything? Were they too scared? 

“Are you alright, honey?”

Mom was worrying. They all were, and they were all staring at me. I wanted to say that I wasn’t okay, that I felt like screaming and crying and throwing a chair across a wall and pounding my fists on the desk and saying why me? Why do I have to be the freak? Why do I have to be the kid that went crazy and destroyed coach’s car? Why me?

“I’m fine, mom.”

I felt like throwing up.

Dr. Roswell turned towards my stepfather. They start talking about what to do with me, what medications I should take, and I stop thinking. Their voices sound murky, like I’m underwater, and my fists started to shake. It’s just not fair! I try so hard at lacrosse, I get good grades, I have all these friends, and what does the school board do? They expel me! For one little freak-out! It just isn’t FAIR!

“Liam, sweetie?”

I could barely hear her. My chest felt tight and I wanted nothing more than to hurl my chair into the wall and watch it smash into tiny little pieces. Just like coach’s car window.

“Liam, honey, please calm down-”

My mom moved to put her hand over mine, and something inside me snapped. I snatched my hands away from her and stood up so fast I almost knocked my chair over.

“You guys think I’m crazy now? Just because some stupid doc decides that I’m nuts you all treat me like some wackjob? Is that what I am now? Huh? A freakshow? You think I don’t see the looks you guys give each other when you think I’m not paying attention? The ‘Oh, I’m sorry your son is deranged?’ look? I can see you! I CAN FREAKING SEE YOU! I’M NOT CRAZY! I DON’T NEED TO TAKE ANTIPSYCHOTICS, I NEED EVERYONE TO SHUT THE HELL UP AND STOP PISSING ME OFF AND THAT DOESN’T MEAN I’M FREAKING CRAZY!” In my blind fit of rage, seeing nothing but red, I hurled my chair into the wall and watched one of the legs break off with satisfaction. It fell to the ground next to the Mr. Roswell’s desk and I laughed because it looked pathetic. I stood there, feeling nothing but pleasure as I stared at the chair in front of me. But then I looked at everyone else in the room.

And as rapidly as the rage started, the guilt came twice as fast. Dr. Roswell looked somber, my stepfather had that unreadable expression on his face, and my mother-oh god, my mother- had a hand over her mouth and tears welled up in her eyes. She looked like she just lost something, something she’d never be able to get back. I suddenly realized it was me, she thought she lost _me_ , and I tried to tell her I’m still here, it’s still me, and that I was so, so _sorry_ , but all that came out was a choked sob. I tried to apologize again but that embarrassing sound came out again, and then Mom was hugging me and my stepfather was there and I couldn’t stop crying. I started to get mad at myself for crying, then I got mad at myself for getting mad and I ended up crying harder. Someone kept apologizing over and over again, and I still don’t know whether it was me or my mom.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated myself as much as I did in that moment.

Eventually, after crying our hearts out, Dr. Roswell got us all to calm down. They started talking about me again, but I don’t remember a thing anyone said. I remember feeling numb in the chair, and then I remember feeling numb on the way out, and then I remember feeling numb as I stared out of the window on the way home. 

I didn’t stop feeling numb for a while.

This all happened before winter break. After finding out I’m an I.E.D, no other private schools would take me; I don’t blame them. I’ve read about it, and I wouldn’t want a ticking time bomb to walk down my school’s halls either. That’s all we are, really: ticking time bombs, waiting to destroy everything and anything in our wake. I ended up being transferred to Beacon Hills High School, a public school. I’d talk about how hard it’s going to be to make new friends at a new school _and_ deal with the fact that I've never attended public school before, but I’m not going to. I’d just get angry, and I’m tired of being angry. I don’t want to be angry anymore.

I’m lying down in my backyard now, lacrosse stick in hand. It’s freezing, but I don’t mind; I’ve been practicing for hours. It’s quiet except for the whispering of the wind. The sky is an icy blue, and there’s a couple clouds scattered here and there. The trees in the woods behind my house are strangely enchanting; the bare limbs seem as if they’re reaching out to me, inviting me in. Obviously that’s a stupid thought, since they’re freaking trees and they can’t invite anyone anywhere.

School starts tomorrow, and I couldn’t care less. At least one good thing is coming out of this-Doc always says to look at the bright side of things- I’ll finally go to the same school as Mason. I’m not interested in making new friends, so I’ll just make friends with whomever he’s friends with. All I care about is lacrosse. If I can learn to focus my anger into being a better athlete, without hurting anyone, my parents will let it slide that I’m not taking my meds. Otherwise, I’ll live my life feeling more tired and empty than I already do, and then I’ll really be gone. I just need to prove that I can do this. I can be like everyone else. I can be normal, if they just let me try.

Maybe this school will help me be a normal kid again.


End file.
